Leon Kennedy

He leaves. He comes back. Then he disappears again — no kiss, no hug, not even a shitty excuse. Just gone. And yeah, he knows how that looks. But to him, it’s survival. He's learned the hard way not to get too comfortable. People don’t stick around. So he kept his distance, even with you — especially with you. You’re the only one who ever got close enough to make him want to throw caution to the wind. Leon's been burned before, more times than he cares to count. And yeah, he loves you. He fucking craves you. Everything in him pulls toward you like a goddamn magnet, but he'd always resort to silence and distance; that’s the only way he knew how to keep breathing. If he gives all of himself to you, what the hell would he have left? Those were the mental gymnastics that kept him up at night.

He drank too much, didn't talk enough, and thought too hard about things from the past he knew couldn't be changed; they were in the past for a reason... still. And then you came along, and somehow, you made all of that worse. Now, when it’s quiet, he doesn't chew on the past anymore — he just misses you. And he hates that. It eats him alive that some smart-mouthed, too perfect, too everything he's not, bastard like you could make his heart feel anything but numb. Leon was used to his heart racing in life-or-death situations, not ever in a million years would he have thought he'd meet his better half, his man that made his heart pump just as fast, made him all warm and tingly and mushy inside. He deflects. Always. You know that. He always deflected pain with humor and booze, and you — you screwed up his formula. You saw through all the bullshit, called him out every time he tried to pretend he didn’t care.

You always said Leon never opens up, and maybe that’s true. But through his eyes, he's shown you what he could. Like after a fight, when he’d slowly inch over until you were in his arms, wrapped up like he could keep the world from touching you. Or when he thought you were asleep and he’d talk to you — full conversations, whispering to you, his breath fanning your skin as he confessed every little thing he was too afraid to say when you're awake. But you weren't asleep... You were listening to his slurred confessions. And he'd be there staring at you, tracing every imperfection of the face you hated, yet he adored, talking and talking. If he ever found out you'd been pretending to be asleep, he'd be mortified and utterly embarrassed.

When he felt guilty about the distance, his inability to talk to you the way you deserved, he'd "pocket dial" you so you could listen in on him — he counted on it. He knew your nosy ass would listen, put yourself on mute to eavesdrop. So he made sure to cover important details to reassure you: I'm alive, I'm fed, I'm about to sleep. Just him muttering to himself, playing the part of the grump. It always went something along the lines of, “This bed’s lumpy, but the food was decent. Maybe if I fake sleep long enough, my brain’ll follow.” Way easier than answering your questions 'cause he wouldn't have answers you were looking for, and hearing that disappointment in your voice? That hurt worse than anything else.

Tonight was no different. Three months had come and gone. No calls. No texts. Three months is how long it's been since he last saw you, caressed your body, looked into your eyes as you lay tangled between the sheets, whispering sweet nothings as he slid into you. He'd been craving you so goddamn badly. To feel your body, listen to those pretty noises fall from your lips, your bite on his neck when you're pissed, and still love him anyway. He was just desperate for his man's touch. For a split second, he'd kicked himself... he should’ve brought flowers, champagne, something romantic. But no... all he brought was a bottle of whiskey, half gone by the time he stumbled up your steps. And yeah... he made a spare key to your apartment without asking. Because part of him believes this place is his, too — even if it technically wasn't.

He knew you’d be sulking, and he didn't expect a warm welcome. He knew he should've made an effort to reach out the way he usually would, a pocket dial or short text: "I'm alive." The glare the second he swung the door open and caught sight of you curled up in the windowsill nook, looking every bit beautiful, perfect, and cranky... he already knew what you were going to say before you said it. “Whoa there, tiger. Don't get up in arms," He said, grinning like he hadn’t vanished for a quarter of a year. Hands up in surrender, boots off at the door. He still remembered not to track mud into your sanctuary. “I'm home trained now... 'member the tongue lashing from last time? Yeah, I learned... barely." But you didn’t move, didn’t smile, just stared at him. It was a long day and even longer night, and the last thing you wanted was him here. Well, kinda anyway. You love him, even when he torments you— which he does— and still you accept the dirty stray into your cozy apartment.

"You would be sulking in the rain," he mumbled, even though he was the one dripping wet, glassy-eyed, bottle clenched in his shaky grip like a goddamn security blanket. But he wasn’t gonna talk about that — hell no. You’re more fun to antagonize. 'Cause after the attitude and the silence, Leon knew he'd get what he really came for — You. He just had to suffer through your bitchiness first. The floorboards creaked as he approached the nook where you were lounging. You were watching the rain like it was more interesting than him. Fair. Leon dropped down on the bench beside you with a groan. His body was aching and heavier than the guilt and regret he'd carried since his early twenties. “Sooo...” he slurred, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. “You gonna say something, or am I just gonna get the silent treatment all night?”

You didn’t answer. Just shifted slightly when the bench dipped under his weight. Silence. It was his fucking hell. So, naturally, he took another swig, thumb flicking the cap off like a tic. He hated this part, the part where he had to be honest. You always made him say shit he didn't wanna say, like feelings and truths. He knew he didn't deserve anything from you but the silent treatment. Fuck, he knew he deserved to be cussed out, have what's left in the bottle splashed in his face, and to be kicked out. "You gonna make me say I missed you or somethin’?" He scoffed, trying to play it cool. He remembered that night too well — your hands on his face, demanding he say I love you. And he did, you kinda made him. It was silly, he bitched and moaned, but he knew that he loved you more than his own life. He didn't need to say it.

His hand reached out to hold your foot, wanting to touch you... So he started by massaging you through your warm, fuzzy sock. God, he felt so stupid, but he loved that stupid pair, how it felt against his thigh when you two cuddled up in bed. “You know I always come back to you, baby…” he muttered softly now. That was his version of I love you. Then he smirked, just had to ruin it. “... you’re way cheaper than therapy.” There it was. A stupid line to dodge the weight of what he really felt. He knew the comment would piss you off, so he tugged your foot into his lap, pinning it there with gentle pressure. You weren’t going anywhere. He needed you, even if he couldn’t say it right. He always came back to you because you were his home, even if he didn’t know how to live in one.